Bred of the Desert - Charles Marcus Horton (best short novels .TXT) 📗

“You’re–you’re mighty decent,” he repeated, hollowly, by way of farewell. “But I’ve got to go. And don’t worry about my making the station,” he added, reassuringly. “I have the directions, and I’ll get there in time to make that ten-thirty eastbound to-night.” He clambered painfully up into the saddle.

A third member of the group, the round-faced and smiling cowpuncher, opened up with his pleasing drawl. “Why’n’t you stay over till mornin’, then?” he demanded. “The ranch wagon goes up early, and you could ride the seat just like a well man.”

But Stephen remained obdurate, and, repeating his thanks and farewells, he urged Pat forward at a walk because he himself could not stand the racking of a more rapid gait. The men sent after him expressions of regret mingled with friendly denunciations, but he rode steadily on, closing his ears grimly against their pleas, and soon he was moving slowly across the Arizona desert. His direction was northwest, and his destination, though new to him, a little town on the Santa Fé.

As he rode forward through the quiet of the afternoon he found his thoughts a curious conflict. At times he would think of the girl, and of his love for her, and of the long, still hours spent in the ranch-house brooding, especially the nights, when, gazing out at the stars, he had wondered whether she knew, or, knowing, whether, after all, she really cared. They had been lonely nights, fever-tossed and restless, nights sometimes curiously made up of pictures–pictures of a runaway horse and of a girl mounted upon the horse, and of long walks and rides and talks with her afterward, and of the last night in her company, outside a corral and underneath a smiling moon, the girl in white, her eyes burning with a strange glow, himself telling his love for her, and hearing in return only that she did not and could not return that love.

These were his thoughts at times as he rode forward through the desert solitude. Then he would awaken to his physical torture, and in this he would completely forget his spiritual distress, would ask why he had flung himself into this mocking silence and plunged into all this misery and pain. He knew why–knew it was because of the girl. But would it have been better to accept her dismissal and, returning to the East, let her pass out of his memory? In his heart he knew that he could not.

There followed the thought of his responsibility for Pat, and of what was left for him to do. He recalled the theft, and his weeks of futile riding to recover the horse, and the thrill accompanying risk of life when he finally recovered him. And after that the second theft, and another and more dreadful ride when he raced through the night after the cavalry–the torture of it, the agony of his arm, the shooting, and the grappling hand to hand, and Pat sinking with exhaustion, and the thrill again, his own, at having the horse once more in his possession. It was worth it–all of it–and he was glad–glad to have had an object for once in his life. And he still had that object, for was he not riding the horse on a journey which would end in placing Pat in the hands of the adorable girl who owned him?

Thus he rode through the afternoon and on into an early dusk. Suddenly awaking to the Stygian darkness around him, he gave over thinking of the past and future and turned uneasy thoughts upon the present. Above him was a black, impenetrable dome, seemingly within touch of his hand; around and about him pressed a dense wall that gave no hint of his whereabouts. Yet he believed that he was pursuing the right direction; and, forgetting that Pat, no more than himself, knew the route, he gave the horse loose rein. Thus for an hour, two hours, three, he rode slowly forward, when like a flash it came to him that he was hopelessly lost. He reined in the horse sharply.

For a time he sat trying to place himself. Failing in this, he raised his eyes, hoping for a break in the skies. But there was no glimmer of light, and after a while, not knowing what else to do, he sent Pat forward again. But his uneasiness would not down, and presently he drew rein again, dismounted, and fell to listening. There was not a breath of air. He took a step forward, his uneasiness becoming fear, and again stood motionless, listening, gripped by the oppressive stillness of the desert. It crept upon him, this death-quiet, seemed to close about him suffocatingly. Suddenly he started. Out of the dense blackness had come a voice, weak and plaintive. He turned tense with excitement and listened keenly.

“Hello, there! This–over this way!”

He could see nothing; but he moved in the direction of the voice. After a few strides he was stopped by a consciousness of something before him, and there was a constrained groan.

“Careful, man–I’m hurt. Unhorsed this morning. Been crawling all day for shade. Strike a match, will you? God! but it’s a night!”

Stephen struck a light. As it flared up he saw prone in the sand a young man, his face drawn with pain, his eyes dark and hunted. The match went out. He struck another. The man was pitifully bruised and broken. A leg of his trousers had been torn away, and the limb lay exposed, strangely twisted. His track, made in crawling through the sand, stood out clearly, trailing away beyond the circling glow of light. A moment of flickering, and the second match went out.

“Which way were you headed, friend?” Stephen asked, pityingly. His heart went out to the stricken stranger. He wanted to ask another question, too, but he hesitated. But finally he asked it. “Who are you, old man?”

For a moment the fellow did not reply. The silence was oppressive. Stephen regretted his question. Then suddenly the man answered him, weakly, bitterly, as one utterly remorseful.

“I’m Jim,” he blurted out. “Horse-thief, cattle-rustler.”

Stephen bit his lip. More than ever he regretted that he had asked. Well, something had to be done, and done quickly. Could he but feel sure of his direction, he might place this unfortunate upon Pat and walk with him to the railroad town, where proper medical and surgical attendance could be obtained. But this he was unable to do, since he fully realized he was astray.

“Brother,” he suddenly explained, “I was headed, myself, toward the railroad. A little before dark I lost my way. Do you happen to know–”

“Sit down,” interrupted the other, faintly. “I’ve been–been lost–a week.”

Stephen sat down thoughtfully. All hope of serving the man for the present was gone. He must wait till daybreak at least. Then somebody or something might appear to show him the way out. He thought of the ranch wagon, and of Buddy’s offer, and it occurred to him that unless he was too far off the regular course he might attract Buddy. It was a chance, anyway.

“I’ve been ’most dead, too, for a week,” suddenly began the other. “I ’ain’t eat regularly, for one thing–’most a month of that, I reckon. Been times, too, when I couldn’t–couldn’t find water. I didn’t know the country over here. Had to change–change horses a couple times, too. Because–” He checked himself. “I made a mistake–the last horse. He give me all–all that was comin’–”

A nicker from Pat interrupted him. Stephen felt him cringe. Directly he felt something else. It was a cold hand groping to find his own. The whole thing was queer, uncanny, and he was glad when the man went on.

“Did–did you hear that?” breathed the fellow, a note of suppressed terror in his voice. “Did you hear it, friend? Tell me!” His voice was shrill now.

Stephen reassured him, explaining that it was his horse. But a long time the man held fast, fingers gripping his hand, as if he did not believe, and was listening to make sure. At length he relaxed, and Stephen, still seated close beside him, heard him sink back into the sand.

“I was getting away from–from–Oh, well, it don’t–don’t make any difference.” The fellow was silent. “I needed a–a horse,” he continued, finally. “My own–the third since–since–my own had played out. I was near a ranch, and–and it was night, and I–I seen a corral with a horse standing in it–a gray. It was moonlight. I–I got the gate open, and I–I roped him, and–” He interrupted himself, was upon one elbow again. “It was a stallion–a cross-bred, maybe–and–and say, friend, he rode me to death! I got on him before I knowed what he was. Bareback. He shot out of that corral like he was crazy. But I–I managed to hold–hold to him and–if he’d only bucked me off! But he didn’t. He just raced for it–tore across the country like a cyclone. He rode me to death, a hundred miles, I bet, without a stop. And I held on–couldn’t let go–was afraid to let go.” He was silent. “Are you–you dead sure, friend, that was your horse?”

Stephen again reassured him, realizing the fear upon the man and now understanding it. But he said nothing.

“And then somewhere off here he throwed me,” went on the man. “But he–he was a raving maniac. He turned on me before I could get up, and bit and kicked and trampled me till I didn’t know nothing–was asleep, or something. When I came to–woke up–he was still hanging around. He’s around here yet! I heard him all day–yesterday! He’s off there to the east somewheres. He’s–he’s looking for me. I kept still whenever I’d see him or hear him, and then when he’d move off out of sight, or quit–quit his nickering, I’d crawl along some more. I’m–I’m done, stranger,” he concluded, weakly, dropping over upon his back. “I’m done, and I know it. And it was that horse that–that–” He was silent.

Stephen did not speak. He could not speak after this fearsome tale. Its pictures haunted him. He could see this poor fellow racing across the desert, clinging for life to that which meant death. His own condition had been brought about through a horse, a horse and wild rides at a time when he should have been, as this unfortunate undoubtedly should have been, in bed under medical care. For a moment he thought he would tell him a tale of misery equal to his own, in the hope that he might turn him from thoughts of his own misfortunes. But before he could speak the other broke in upon his thoughts with a shrill outcry. He had raised himself upon one elbow again, and now was pointing toward the eastern sky.

“Look!” he cried. “Look off there!”

Stephen turned his eyes in the direction of the pointing finger. He saw a faint light breaking through the black dome of the sky. As he watched it, it trickled out steadily, like slow-spreading water, filtering slowly through dense banks of clouds, folding them back like the shutter of a giant camera, until the whole eastern sky was a field of gray clouds with frosty edges, between which, coming majestically forward through the green-white billow, appeared finally a moon, big and round and brilliant, casting over the earth a flood of wonderland light, streaming down upon the dunes and flats in mystic sheen, bringing out the desert in soft outline. Near by, the light brought out the form of Pat, standing a short distance off with drooping head, motionless in all the splendor of his perfect outline. Stephen turned back to the man. He found him staring hard at the horse. He did not understand